


Something New

by Severina



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: hardtime100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris lets his fingers trail across the tabletop, cocks his head and regards Toby curiously before sprawling into one of the chairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something New

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 605 - '4forgiveness'  
> Prompt 31: Something Old, Something New (LJ's Hardtime100 Community)  
> Originally started as a First Sentence prompt from ozsaur, though the original first sentence isn't used here. Thanks, ozsaur! I also like to think that the canon things that happened after this scene.. don't happen now. *nods*

Chris slumps on the bed, boot held loosely in his grasp. His fingers pick at the seam where it's coming free from the sole, edging relentlessly over the loose line of stitching, and when the bank of overhead lights flick out he's still staring blankly at the bars of his cell, pondering his almost diminished prison account. He's never been great with numbers but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he doesn't have enough to cover a cheap pair of sneakers, never mind a decent pair of boots.

He could ask Bonnie, but he already knows how that'd turn out. Bonnie'd look at him with those big sad eyes and rest one hand on his arm, rub her thumb against his wrist, coo at him, make him feel guilty for asking even though she didn't mean to. And she's barely scraping by as it is, double-shifting at the factory whenever she can, staying on her feet longer than she's supposed to, putting money aside that she should be spending on herself to make the long bus trip to the prison once a month. He's not doing that to her. Besides, he's no charity case.

His other option is Toby, who could spare the money without even thinking twice, but Toby hasn't been to see him for --

(nine weeks, four days, thirteen hours)

\-- quite a while, and Chris isn't exactly holding his breath that there will ever be a visit.

The last time he saw Toby there were still bars between them. Toby in his upmarket suit and tie, smelling like some kind of expensive cologne, some designer label like Versace or Armani, something to match his suit. Toby had read all those fancy words aloud, and Chris had whooped and hollered and kissed him. And then Toby had filled him in on the particulars and strolled away, free, but the scent of that cologne had hung in the air of Death Row like a cloud, seeping into his skin, burning his eyes, souring on his tongue.

Toby makes pretty promises, but Toby's also real good at lying to himself. He's got a life now, and he'll figure out real soon that there's no reason for him to come back.

When Johnson taps on the bars with his nightstick, Chris blinks lazily and tosses his boot to the floor. He rolls over onto this back and tucks his hands behind his head, and thinks that he can still smell that phantom cologne.

* * *

"Keller!"

Chris lines up and takes his shot. The eight ball ricochets off the side of the table and doesn't sink, and he curses fluently before standing up and leaning on his cue to glare at the hack. "What?" he snaps.

Phelan rolls her eyes. "Visitor."

Chris scowls, tosses his cue on the table. "I ain't expecting nobody."

"Then it's a surprise. I'm happy for you," Phelan deadpans. "You going to move your ass?"

"Yo Keller," one of the watchers calls out. "You can't just walk away. I got twenty bucks ridin' on you, man."

"Hey, I didn't ask you to bet on me, pal," Chris says. He does a little mental calculation. It was Angie last month... He smirks at the rest of the men gathered around the table. "Must be Kitty."

"Yeah?" One of the homeboys looks interested. "She purr when you fuck her, Keller?"

"Come down to the visitation room and find out," Chris replies.

He ignores the dubious looks and catcalls and slides into place behind Phelan, his mind already focused on the upcoming visit. It's always nice to have something to break up the monotony.

* * *

Chris struts into the visiting room, scans the tables eagerly for Kitty's familiar blonde hair, already feeling her nails digging into his biceps, hearing that little noise she makes in the back of her throat when he kisses her. He needs a little distraction, and she'll be just perfect for providing it.

His gaze lights on Toby instead. Toby in a sleek brown turtleneck, hair cut short, hands splayed on the table, pretty mouth set in a thin line. Pale blue eyes meet his questioningly, and Chris hesitates in the doorway before strolling to the table. He lets his fingers trail across the tabletop, cocks his head and regards Toby curiously before sprawling into one of the chairs.

"Hey," Toby says.

"Hey."

"You look good."

"Yeah, well," Chris says. He leans back, long legs stretched under the table, lets his gaze wander around the room before returning his attention to Toby. "Been working out," he says. "Ain't much else to do."

"I remember," Toby says. And by the way Toby's throat works convulsively, Chris knows he's remembering all the other things they used to do to pass the time. He wonders if Toby lays awake at night, feels phantom fingers caressing his dick the way he does, warm breath ghosting across his skin when there's nobody else there.

"Listen," Toby finally continues, "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

Chris's eyes flick to one of the other tables, and he watches one of the dinks from his unit take a clandestine drop from his visitor, the supervising hack clueless. He turns back, shrugs. "You're a busy guy."

"You're pissed," Toby says flatly.

Chris smiles brightly. "Whatever gives you that idea?"

"Chris. Don't do this."

"Do what?" Chris says. He leans in, crowds Toby's space, loves the way Toby's eyes flare wide when he runs a hand possessively down Toby's arm. "I understand how it works. You're back to being a big-shot lawyer now. Got lots of important shit to do. Like shopping for… what is this? Cashmere?" He drops his gaze to Toby's hands. "And getting a manicure. Did you get the pedi too?"

Toby pulls his hands back self-consciously, but his chin snaps up. "You might want to remember that this big-shot lawyer got your ass off of death row," he bites out.

"And I'm grateful," Chris says. He tweaks the fabric one last time before settling back in his chair. "Unit B's much more amenable to my needs. I got other… things… to occupy my time in B."

He sees the barb hit home as Toby tries to hide his wince. Five years in the system and Toby didn't learn shit about wearing a poker face when it counts.

"Are you going to spend this whole visit acting like a fucking bitch?"

Chris grins. "I think you got the two of us confused."

"Oh yeah?" Toby's entire body tenses, the cords in his arms popping like a junkie waiting for his fix. Chris braces himself, waits for the swing of his fist, resigns himself to spending the next ten days naked in the hole, and then watches in silent fascination as Toby swallows the anger whole, shakes with the effort of it. He meets Chris's eyes determinedly. "Why are you doing this?"

Chris folds his arms at his chest. Ignores the question, squints down at the tabletop instead. "So how's life on the outside? How are your kids?"

Toby is silent for a moment, then he leans forward, presses his forearms against the table. Watches him so intently that Chris is forced to look up, to face him.

"The kids are great," he says. "We have barbeques on the back deck and play Frisbee. I love being outside. The weather is gorgeous and I can spend hours with my face turned up to the sun. And every single minute I want you and miss you and wish you were there with me."

Chris's mouth is suddenly dry, and when Toby puts a hand gently on top of his, he doesn't resist.

"I'm never going to forget you," Toby says. "And I'll always come back."

Chris looks away from Toby's eyes, that penetrating gaze that sees too much. Stares down at Toby's hand instead, smooth un-calloused hand with its buffed and polished nails. It occurs to him suddenly that Toby may have actually gone to the trouble of cashmere and manicure and new neat-as-a-pin haircut for _him_. Maybe Toby wanted to look good for him. The thought startles him, and he relaxes, lets his gaze slowly travel up Toby's body as he imagines ripping away that turtleneck that covers far too much of Toby's skin, mussing that schoolboy haircut, throwing Toby down on the table and doing all the things that make him whimper and growl.

He meets Toby's eyes and watches with satisfaction when Toby's breath hitches and his tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip.

"I'll be here every week now that I've filled out all the paperwork and gone through the screening," Toby says, his voice now a little shaky. "You believe me?"

Chris drags his hand away from Toby's, watches the disappointment on Toby's face change to happiness as he pulls his chair closer, close enough for their thighs to press together beneath the table. When their arms touch the electricity crackles between them like it always has. Like it always will.

"They really make you jump through hoops, huh?" he asks

If Toby notices that he avoided the question, he gives no sign. "Everything in triplicate," Toby sighs. "It was a lot easier when I was your lawyer advocate. Then I could get in to see you whenever I wanted."

"You want I should kill someone so you can defend me again?"

Toby sniffs. "Chris."

"You got no sense of humour, Tobe," Chris says. He leans just a little closer, brushing completely against him, tongue flicking out to tease at Toby's earlobe, breath tickling his ear. "You know I wouldn't stick my dick anywhere else, Beecher."

He pulls back enough to look into Toby's eyes, watches them narrow even as he quivers. "Not if you know what's good for you, Keller."

"Oh, I know," Chris says, surprised to discover it's true. His life has been lived in the moment. He's not used to thinking in terms of later, of next week, of always. But he wants to believe.

"I… uh… I brought you something," Toby says.

Chris arches a brow as Toby leans down, places a brown paper bag on the table. "Hooch?" he asks with a grin.

Toby snorts. "It's nothing exciting," he says. "In fact, it's stupid. I just…" He swipes a hand through his too-short hair, shrugs helplessly.

Chris pulls the bag closer, cocks his head and studies Toby for a moment before reaching inside and pulling out the present.

"Socks," he says flatly.

Toby flops back in the chair, spreads his arms wide. "I'm an idiot," he says.

"No," Chris says quickly. He rips apart the plastic, tugs off one of his boots so he can put on his… gift. "Socks are good. Listen, Tobe, nobody ever brings me nothing. This is real nice."

Toby smiles hesitantly. "I know how you're always going through yours."

Chris nods. Most of the socks in his current collection originally belonged to Toby, after all. He wiggles his toes experimentally.

Maybe he'll ask Toby to bring boots next week. Next time. Later. He's not going anywhere.

And apparently neither is Toby.

Chris meets Toby's eyes and smiles.


End file.
